


Let Me Sleep Beside You

by GiggleSnortBangDead



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:56:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles could understand. That loneliness eats at you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Sleep Beside You

**Author's Note:**

> > Let you hair hang down  
>  Wear the dress your mother wore  
> Let me sleep beside you 

It wasn’t like this never happened. Having had so much time to get used to that person-shaped hole, it was almost silly how they still did this. However, no one ever laughed and no one spoke the next morning.

Stiles could understand. That loneliness eats at you. Even years later, you’ll be thinking you’re fine and then, one warm, spring evening, a smell wafts in through an open window or a song comes on the radio or that one movie with Liz Taylor plays on cable and, suddenly, there She is, smiling at you again. Waking up your heart. Tearing at the carefully built walls.

Stiles could even understand, in some slight, sidelong way, that sometimes he looked too much like Her. Sometimes, he’d walk in on his father drinking alone late at night and, without seeing, Stiles could recognize the hurt, persistent, pained love flashing in his own eyes. He could feel himself rearranging his mouth into a smile. And, when he nudged the glass and bottle away, with that barely concealed look of unstinting, scandalized love on his young face, sometimes something in his father’s mind would break in just the smallest way.

The man knew that it was only his son taking care of him. Some part of him, though, wished so hard for his wife. And that sweet look; that troubled smile reminded him of how She looked a few days before the end. The smile that She had held on Her lips that was only between the two of them now found its way onto their child’s face.

His father let him take the bottle away but his arm was grabbed by a large, warm hand.

“Stiles,” the man said, like he was trying not to remember.

Stiles swallowed and licked his lips, not really trusting his voice but saying a weak, “Yeah, Dad?” anyway.

The sheriff reached his other hand up, not loosening his grip on the boy’s arm, and touched his son’s face. It was gentle, barely brushing his cheek, his chin, the corner of his lips.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Stiles recognized this as something a father didn’t generally do to his full-grown, teenaged son. It was something that wasn’t meant for him. But, his father needed it and so he said nothing.

Stiles put the bottle down and brought his own hand to the hand of his father. His fingers curled around and simply held. He didn’t push away and he did not further the light, sweeping touch.

“You look so much like her,” his father finally rasped out, and, in that moment, it was no compliment.

“I know,” was all Stiles could say.

“I miss her so much,” he bit out.

“I know,” and he tightened his grip on his father’s hand.

They were like that, holding each other’s gaze, for too long until the sheriff tugged his hand away and stood, only swaying slightly. Saying nothing more, he leant forward and pressed his lips against his son’s hairline, in some sort of lax kiss. Remaining still for another second, Stiles could hear him inhale.

“Do you think you can sleep tonight?” he asked, quietly, almost doubting he should.

His father pulled back. “No,” he said, after a pause. “Probably not.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded. With that, he went upstairs - bottle still on the table and his father following behind him. In his room, he stripped down to his boxers and tugged on an old, blue cotton night shirt that wasn’t his and was almost too short in the arms. The smell of Her on it was just some distant memory.

And, when he went to his father’s room, the man was already there, turning back the covers. Stiles got in first and his father followed closely behind. His arms found their way around his sons’s waist and his head rested on his chest. He buried his face in the old, familiar material of the shirt and _breathed_ , like it was something he had, until recently, forgotten how to do. And, if he started to sob and repeat names that no one in their house acknowledged anymore, Stiles didn’t notice. He just threaded his fingers through his father’s hair and, as was usual for nights like this, slept well, with no dreams, and with no fear.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yes, title is from a David Bowie song (of the same name). And this is the first thing I'm posting here, so, be kind if possible. Thank you for reading.


End file.
